


A Fresh Start

by Ylixia



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bloodplay, Canon Implied Murder, Coda, Daddy Kink, Forced Exhibitionism, Forced Voyeurism, HYDRA Trash Party, Knives, M/M, Masochism, Massive Consent Issues, Missing Scene for s2e08, The Things We Bury, the author needs jesus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-02 23:24:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2829839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ylixia/pseuds/Ylixia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grant Ward plans to start his new-found freedom with a clean slate.  Brock Rumlow is not even slightly impressed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fresh Start

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Gut Punches](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1671350) by [StarsGarters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsGarters/pseuds/StarsGarters). 



> So one day I was trying to convince [StarsGarters](http://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsGarters/pseuds/StarsGarters) to continue her Wardlow series [Body Blows](http://archiveofourown.org/series/106121) and accidentally bunnied myself. Whoops.
> 
> I consider the events in the first two stories more-or-less canon to this story's timeline, but you don't have to read them. You probably shouldn't read this either, if I'm being honest.

“Where are you taking me?” Christian asks a couple feet down the forest path, sounding low and dejected.

Grant smiles his nicest smile, letting all the peace and satisfaction he feels leak into his voice. “I told you,” he says as they round a curve in the forest path. He tugs on Christian, shaking him in a brotherly gesture with an arm wrapped tightly around his shoulders. “Don't look so glum, big brother! We're gonna see Mom and Dad. It'll be good. Healing. Cathartic.”

“Jesus Christ, do you even fucking listen to yourself?” Comes a rough, gravely voice from up ahead of them. Grant freezes. automatically tightening his grip on Christian, just in case he's stupid enough to bolt.

“What the fuck happened to your face?” Grant says, because 'how the fuck did you find me' and 'what the fuck are you doing here' will give too much away. Even though he wants to know the answers to those questions. He wants the answers very, very badly, but he has more important things to deal with right now.

“Missed you too, baby,” says Rumlow with a snort, dropping his cigarette butt and crushing it with one booted heel. There aren't any others on the ground, so he's been here for a bit, but not too long. Probably.

“Grant?” Christian asks lowly, shakily. “Who... who is – ”

“An acquaintance,” Grant says, cutting off both his brother and Rumlow before either of them can say anything stupid.

Rumlow laughs, an ugly, rasping sound. “An 'acquaintance'. So that's what the kids are calling it these days.”

“Fuck off, Brock,” Grant spits. “I'm done with you. I'm done with all of you. I'm not doing it anymore.”

Rumlow rolls his eyes. “Yeah no shit, sweetheart.” Rumlow and his  _fucking_ pet names. Grant grits his teeth. “Hydra got spanked by Cap and Pierce ate Fury's gun. I'd tell them to go get fucked too even if they didn't hang me out to dry.”

“Cool story, bro,” Grant says, echoing Skye without thinking, and his chest tightens. He shoves Christian toward the car and levels a glare at Rumlow. “Well, it was nice catching up, but we've got some stuff to do. Sorry about the face.”

Rumlow doesn't move from the passenger side door. Christian doesn't move from where Grant pushed him, just stands and looks wildly between Grant and Rumlow's staring contest.

“Grant, I – If he's...”

“You, shut up,” Grant snarls, frustration and anger leaking through despite his best efforts to stay cool. “You, leave.”

Rumlow looks Grant straight in the eye, even and expressionless and perfectly, flawlessly in control. It's conditioning, that fission of heat that tingles up his spine. An echo from a past life, but Grant is not that man anymore and he tamps down on the feeling ruthlessly,

“Forgotten already, have you?” Rumlow tuts. “I'll have to teach you better, next time.”

Fear sits heavy and cold in Grant's gut, equal parts enticing and terrifying. “What do you want?”

Rumlow grins, tugging at the scars distorting his face. “Not too much. Somewhere to lay low, rest up. I'll take a nap on your back seat; you wont even know I'm there.”

Grant thinks a moment. Rumlow's an old... friend, and if he's cut ties with Hydra he's probably more desperate than he's letting on; a lot of those scars have the pinkish tint of healing skin. Ward's man enough to admit that tangling with Rumlow for keeps has never been high on his list of things he's ever wanted to try, and injury and desperation are likely to make him more dangerous. Grant sighs. “Fine,” he says irritably. “Whatever. Christian, get in the goddamn car.”

“No,” Christian says, his voice shaking and frightened, but determined. Grant and Rumlows brows both shoot up as they look at him. Christian's eyes flick between them nervously. “Grant, who is this man? Why are you letting him bully you like this? Look,” Grant watches in fascination as he settles, transforming himself into the smooth politician selling a pitch, “we worked things out. Whatever this man has on you, he can't touch you. I wont let him.”

Grant stares at him incredulously – seriously, how has anyone ever believed a word out of this man's mouth? – but only for a moment because then Rumlow starts laughing. It's a deep, throaty, rolling laugh, a belly laugh, that has Rumlow doubled over and wiping tears from his eyes.

“Oh he'll _protect_ you, will he?” Rumlow chuckles when he has himself under control, eyes bright and dancing. “Jesus fuck, Grant, where did you find this loser?”

Christian stiffens and Grant suppresses a smile. “He's my brother.”

Rumlow whistles, and laughs, and says “Now that you mention it, I can see the family resemblance.”

Grant's whole body tenses, and his eyes narrow. He takes one single step towards Rumlow and says “I am _nothing_ like him.”

Rumlow, infuriatingly, rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Can we go? I'm not really interested in your family drama.”

Grant glares at him, tempted to just tell him to fuck off, no deal, he's done with people like him anyway. He suppresses the urge to reach up and touch the scars high up on his left side. He decides it's easier just to let him tag along.

Sure. Easier.

He gives Christian another shove towards the passenger door. Rumlow shifts helpfully out of the way, but Christian doesn't budge.

“No,” he says. “I'm not sure what you're planning, Grant, but I'm not going anywhere near that man.”

Rumlow bares his teeth in an ugly grin, and holds Christian's eyes as he pulls a butterfly knife from his belt and starts flicking it neatly and skillfully around his fingers. He makes no pretense that this show is anything other than a threat and Christian, soft in the middle and used to relying on bodyguards and armored vans, swallows audibly.

“Get in the car, big brother,” Grant says gently, and he does.

–

It takes hours to drive to their parent's house and, true to his word, Rumlow sleeps the entire time.

He's still sleeping when they pull up and Grant drags Christian inside. He half hopes that Rumlow will just steal the car and get the fuck out of his life, but he knows he's just not that lucky. He ignores the slow heat that curls in his gut at the thought of Rumlow sticking around for just a _little_ bit longer.

Christian gets out of the car on his own. “I go up first,” he says calmly. “They haven't seen you for years – ”

“I know how long it's been since they dumped me in a hole and forgot about me.” Grant says, his voice silky sweet in contrast to his harsh words. “I'm not giving you time to call the police.”

“That's not what happened, Grant. You were arrested for arson and then taken by government agents – Hydra, apparently – and they couldn't have – ”

“Wow, you don't take long to bounce back, do you?” Ward says, shaking his head and chuckling. If there was any part of him that shied away from what he's about to do, it's gone now. Christian isn't sorry, he'll never be sorry, he was just saying what Ward wanted to hear to save his own skin.

Sorry big brother. No dice.

“Grant,” Christian says softly, his face looking guilty and sad and so, so earnest. “I'm sorry, I really mean it. I'm sorry for what happened when we were kids, I'm sorry I never – ”

“What you did,” Grant says harshly. Christian looks surprised.

“What?”

“It didn't just 'happen', it wasn't an act of god or a force of nature. You did it. You tormented me, right alongside her, and then you left me to rot. You would have done it again if you'd had your way.”

Christian looks away, the very picture of anguish and remorse, and Grant has to clench his fits to keep his anger in check. He raises one fist, notes with satisfaction how Christian flinches, and bangs on the door.

Grant gives the woman who answers his sharpest, brightest smile and watches with vindictive glee as the pleasant look on her face morphs to shock, then fear.

“Hello, Mother.”

–

They all end up in the Master Bedroom. Christian and Dad are trussed up on the floor, out cold via liberal application of a taser. Mom is tied to a chair, just coming around, gagged in case she starts screaming when she wakes up.

Grant is sat in a chair right across from her, leaning forward with elbows braced on his legs and his hands clasped together. He's smiling when her eyes flutter open, and grins wider when she screams.

“Stop that,” he says. “I'm not in the mood for one of your headaches.” She looks at him like she slapped him across the face – he just yet might, the night is still young – but she stops trying to scream. Good. Now she can listen.

“It all comes back to you, you know,” he says musingly, getting up to walk about the room. “I mean Christian, he pushed me over the edge, but I never would have been there if it weren’t for you.”

He picks up and examines a few knicknacks on her bureau, rifles through a few drawers. He can see her stiffen out the corner of her eye as he paws through her things and he likes that, he likes being in her space; invading her sanctuary.

Growing up he didn't have his own space. Everything he had was on loan from her, and Dad to a lesser extent, and she'd always gotten a lot of enjoyment from reminding him of that.

“Do you ever feel bad?” he asks. “Do you ever look back and think 'I shouldn't have treated him that way'? Do you feel guilty for being such a terrible mother that you turned your sons into monsters?”

He picks up a necklace from one of her jewelry boxes. A favorite, he thinks. He'd seen her wear it dozens of times as a kid. It's worth a fortune, he knows, and part of him is tempted to take it; he's got some lean months ahead of him. But no, it's almost definitely insured and this is supposed to be a murder-suicide, not a robbery. Besides, he doesn't want to bring anything of hers with him. This is about freeing himself, cutting his strings, being free from them once and for all. He doesn't want anything from them, going forward.

“They never would have gotten to me, if it weren't for you,” he continues thoughtfully, sparing a brief moment to think of what could have been. He could have been a SHEILD agent for real, and Skye would still love him. Shaking his head, he walks back to sit in the chair. His mother's eyes are wide with fear and anger and Grant knows he has to let go of that fantasy. He leans forward, talking right in her face. “Garrett would have never gotten his hooks in, you did half his work for him before he ever even knew my name – ”

“Christ were you always this whiny?” says a voice from the door. Grant draws his gun and aims it right between Rumlow's eyes. He gives grant a baleful look and pulls out that fucking balisong, flipping it easily between his fingers, if not with his usual grace.

“What the fuck are you doing in here?”

Rumlow shrugs. “I got bored waiting for you in the car. Didn't know you were gonna take your sweet time about it. Besides, no one's ever taken me home to meet the 'rents before, I wanted to say hi.” He waves jauntily at Mom, still flipping the knife with his other hand, and she lets out a soft whimper.

“Get out. This isn't about you.”

“Why? What more do you have to say? Just wrap up and let's get out of here, I'm starving.”

“Get. Out.” Grant grits out, advancing on Rumlow with his gun still drawn. “I'm done. I'm done with you, I'm done with Hydra, I'm done with everyone who has ever used me, or made me do any of those awful things!”

Rumlow sighs and catches his knife closed. “It's a shame,” he says, stepping forward until the barrel of Grant's gun is almost pressed to his forehead.

“What is,” says Ward threateningly.

“After everything I've taught you, you're still so _fucking sloppy._ ”

It all happens in a blur; Rumlow is _fast,_ Grant had forgotten how fast. He grabs Grant's gun arm and disarms him so viciously he almost breaks his wrist, then pivots, hooks a shoulder into his core, and flips him neatly onto the master bed. Grant is dizzy, unused to the disorientation that comes from flips after nine months of nothing but pushups in a lonely cell, and he can barely react before Rumlow's swings a leg over his hips and presses the blade to his carotid artery.

“I wouldn't wiggle too much,” Rumlow says, smiling viciously. “My motor control isn't _quite_ what it used to be.”

“What the fuck, get off – ”

“I'm really disappointed, Grant,” Rumlow tuts, and Grant feels a flush of rage throughout his whole body. “I really thought we learned this lesson, I really did, but here you are; flat on your back with a knife to your throat. You didn't even notice me standing by the door, listening to your whining.”

Grant's blood freezes. “I wasn't _whining_. You don't know what she did, she – ”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rumlow says, sounding bored. “She's to blame for all your poor life choices.” He rolls his eyes and presses on the blade, forcing Grant's head up and too the side. He's not sure, but he thinks Rumlow broke the skin.

“Tell me,” Rumlow says softly, leaning over to bite harshly at Grant's neck. A not-entirely-unpleasant chill rushes through Grant's body and he has to fight to keep still. “Did Mommy Dearest hold a gun to your head when you were taking Garret's cock?” Grant does try to fight then, but Rumlow holds the point of his knife right up close to Grant's eye, and he stops pretty quick. Rumlow barely even pauses for breath. “Was she whispering in your ear when you infiltrated Coulson's team, got them to trust you, _like_ you? Did she hold a knife to your throat while you looked them in the eyes and made them _believe_ with everything they had that you were their friend, that you would _protect_ them?” Grant is breathing heavily, glaring daggers at Rumlow as he stretches himself out un top of him, bracing on forearm against his chest.

“No, of course not. You needed order, kiddo. Guidance.” He taps his knife blade lightly against Grant's cheekbone and Grant wants viciously to shove it into Rumlow's eye socket. But his arms are pinned down in this position and even if he manages it, he'll probably lose an eye himself. That's not a part of his plans.

It's okay. He can wait.

“And look at you!” Rumlow continues. “Without that order, you're a fucking mess. Last time I needed a taser and fucking restraints to keep you down, this time I got you wrapped around my finger with a little pocket knife – ”

Grant lunges, completely unwilling to let that challenge lie, but Rumlow's ready for him. He smashes Grant on the side of the head, dazing him for a moment, and then slices through Grant's shirt with a quick, efficient stroke of his knife. The shirt is almost entirely split down the middle and blood is seeping sluggishly from the shallow red line. The sharp, bright pain of it takes Grant's breath away and he lies back panting as the point of Rumlows knife digs up into his jaw. It's been a long time since he's done this and he fights the urge to sink into the soft, hazy headspace he goes into when he takes pain.

“There you go, sweetheart,” Rumlow croons, running the tips of two fingers through the bright red of Ward's blood. “There it is, that's what you need. Just float on it, don't fight.”

Grant wants to, damn him, he _wants_ to. The pain is pushing into his mind he can feel that simple, calm certainty just beyond his grasp.

_No._

“I don't want this,” he growls, forcing his mind back on track. “I _never_ wanted this. I would never have done any of it, I would never have gone with Garrett, if it weren't for _her.”_

Pain explodes on the side of Grant's face as Rumlow backhands him, then flips him onto his stomach when he's still reeling from it. One swift stroke and Grant feels the fabric of his shirt part across his back, and Rumlow makes short work of ripping the rest of it off.

Rumlow presses the knife into his shoulder blade, a short deeper cute across the longer, shallower one. “Hate to break it to you, kiddo,” Rumlow says, squeezing the cut and making Grant groan and shift. “No one gives a fuck about your mommy issues.”

“Fuck you,” Grant gasps, writhing under the burn of Rumlow's knife, shying away from the slick wet feel of his fingers sliding through it. It's not that much, he _knows_ it's not, he's bled far more than this, but it feels like more.

Movement makes Grant look up. Dad and Christian are stirring on the floor. They jerk on the restraints when they reach consciousness, but Grant isn't worried about it; he knows how to restrain a trained operative; his pathetic family is no match for that.

He didn't bother gagging them though, he thought he'd be a little farther along his plan by now, so when Dad is lucid enough to take in his surroundings he says “Grant?”

Christian doesn't say anything, having some idea of the danger he and Rumlow pose and not wanting to draw attention to himself. Mom screams through the gag and struggles against her bindings, rattling the chair but not quite tipping it over.

“Grant, who is he, what's going – ”

Grant senses a rustle of movement on top of him. He doesn't see the gun, let alone where Rumlow pulled it from, but he knows the look in a civilian's eyes when a firearm is pointing at their head. His father is wearing that look.

“Hostages should be seen and not heard,” Rumlow growls. In a slyer tone he says. “Let's not piss off the guy with the gun, okay? Stay quiet, and I wont hurt you, simple as that.”

Christian closes his eyes and Mom and Dad quiet down and Grant almost laughs at the thought of one of Rumlow's promises meaning anything.

Grant jerks when he feels hands at the front of his pants. “What the fuck do you think you're doing?”

Rumlow pops open the top button and Grant struggles. “If you're going to talk like a pussy,” Rumlow says, voice sounding deep and amused. “I'm going to fuck you like one.”

Grant shoots a glance at the horrified looks on his family's faces and he twists to throw a punch at Rumlow. The angle is awkward and the punch lands artlessly and harmlessly in Rumlows palm. “Are you fucking out of your mind?” Grant yells as he twists and scrambles for leverage.

Rumlow pins him down ruthlessly, pushing his arm up his back almost to the point of dislocation. “You want to fight me on this, Grant?” Rumlow whispers in his ear just as he's debating whether to risk fighting with a dislocated shoulder. “Then you better hope you can put me down quickly. Otherwise, who knows what they'll get up to when your back is turned, huh?”

Grant freezes, and thinks. He could probably take Rumlow one-on-one; he's not quite in peak fighting form, but Rumlow's recovery can't have been short, not with those scars. But Rumlow is older, more experienced, and craftier at short range than Grant is. Better at using using his environment, better at improvising. Grant's not exactly a wet paper bag when it comes to hand-to-hand, but he's always been a better marksman.

And then his family. They're not exactly trained operatives, but Christan is cunning. If Rumlow lures him away from the bedroom – which he will, it wouldn't even be very hard – chances are good that Christian could get free or get to a phone or signal someone outside, and then Grant's whole plan will go up in flames.

Grant buries his face in the blankets beneath him and forces himself to relax in Rumlow's hold.

“Yeah, that's it.” Rumlow croons. “You gonna be good?” he wrenches Grant's arm when he stays silent. “Answer me!”

“Yes!” Grant gasps, pain lighting up his shoulder. “Yes, yes I'll be good.”

“Good,” Rumlow says with satisfaction, releasing his arm. Ward pulls it away from his back with a groan and cradles it to his chest. He can hear his family shifting minutely, can hear Mom's muffled sniffles, but he doesn't look up, shame keeping his face flushed and his eyes hidden.

He can't help but think it's a good thing he was planning on killing them anyway.

Grant expects Rumlow to unzip his pants and shove them down for a quick fuck but the bastard seems like he intends to drag this out, reaching in his open fly to palm his cock through his boxers. The pain and humiliation has him hard and firm under Rumlow's hand, old habits dying not at all. He hates himself for the way his hips shift to rub up into Rumlow's palm, hates Rumlow for the low satisfied chuckle against his ear.

“Always so easy, aren't you baby boy?” Rumlow says, dragging Grant's pants and boxers down the curve of his ass, pinning his legs together. He pulls Grants hips up by his grip on his cock and presses down on Grant's lower back. “Arch your back, come on, what the hell kind of angle is that? There we go baby, that's something I can work with, stay just like that.”

Grant hears a small pop and and out of the corner of his eye he sees Rumlow put the blue plastic lid from a small vaseline tub on the bedspread. He can feel their eyes, can practically taste their fear and disgust and it makes Grant's skin feel hot and tight. His eyes prickle and burn warningly and he squeezes them shut tight and he hates this, this messy, needy _thing_ they made him into, hates that he's getting off on the palpable miasma of horror in the room.

His breath barely has time to catch at the first touch against his hole before Rumlow is shoving two greased-up fingers in all the way in. Grant can't help his startled cry, or the way his body writhes against the stretch and the burn. It's been so fucking _long_ since he's done this and he's tight, way too tight.

“Fucking, _ow._ ” Grant bites out, twisting around to glare at Rumlow, not looking at them, not even _thinking_ about them.

Rumow smirks at him and gives him a sharp smack on the ass. “Like you can't take it, you little slut. Quit bitching.”

Grant drops his head back into his arms and groans as Rumlow yanks his fingers out and presses in another generous, thick glob. He works him a few moments, scissoring him roughly open while Grant tries to swallow all of the sounds that want to come out of his mouth.

Rumlow pulls his fingers out again and Grant barely has time to brace himself before the hot, blunt tip of his cock is pressing inside him. It fucking _hurts,_ jesus christ, and Grant can't help the way he twists with the pain, the way his eyes screw up and his mouth drops open and the little mewls that fall involuntarily from his throat.

“Fuck, baby, you're so fucking tight,” Rumlow says, his voice sounding strained. He doesn't give Grant any time to adjust, just starts moving inside him with long, deep stroke that just wrecks Grant's control. “Yeah, yeah, I know it hurts, ride it out. Maybe next time you'll pull your shit together, pay a little more attention huh? You act sloppy, I'm gonna fuck you sloppy, easy as that.”

Grant blinks, and blinks, and blinks, but tears spill over and roll down his face anyway. His face burns and the cuts on his back sting like hell and he can feel eyes on him, but he's hard as a fucking rock and the slick burn of Rumlow's cock is smoothing out into something horrifyingly pleasurable. Rumlow presses on his back and shifts his weight behind him so he can lean over Grant, changing the angle so on the next thrust in his cock hits just the right spot to make pleasure arch throughout Grant's whole body.

“Yeah,” Rumlow says, and Grant can hear the smile in his voice as he slams into him, dragging low, guttural groans of pleasure from Grant's throat. Grant feels nails dig into his back and drag against the knife cuts, making him scream and jerk back onto Rumlow's cock.

“Yeah there you go, that's all for you. You needed this, didn't you sweetheart, how long has it been? Did you know what a pain slut your boy is?” Rumlow asks their audience, and Grant feels like he's going to light on fire from the humiliation. He burrows his face in his arms and tries to shut them all out, but he can't keep the grunts and groans from falling off his lips and he can't keep from fucking himself on Rumlow's cock. “You must have, he was always so fucking desperate for it, weren't you pretty boy?”

“Oh god, shut up, shut up, shut up,” Grant says desperately in his arms, tensing against Rumlow's inevitable retaliation, but he just laughs.

“Aw, what's the matter, you embarrassed?” Rumlow grabs his hips and slams into him for a few brutal thrusts before settling back into his normal pace. “Guess this is why no one ever took me back to meet the parents.”

Grant groans and keeps is head down and doesn't say anything. Rumlow leans over and presses a hand down on the back of his neck, holding him down while he fucks into him. The stretching burn has passed, leaving nothing but the slick sweet glide of Rumlow's cock and Grant, caught and trapped with nothing to do but submit, melts into the sick pleasure of it.

Rumlow murmurs to him all the way through, whispering those fucking pet names in a cruel, twisted mockery of affection. The sound of them twists hotly in his gut and Grant can feel his mind sinking down, floating in that sweet space of obedience and acceptance. He doesn't even fight it anymore, doesn't have an ounce of fight left in him, and he lets everything in his mind go quiet and still with an internal sigh of relief. He hadn't known how loudly he's been screaming inside his own mind until it all went quiet and peaceful.

His cock is hard as steel and dripping precum onto the floral bedspread and Grant wishes desperately he was able to come just like this, just from being fucked and having a hard cock battering into him.

He can't, though, he never could, and in his current state he doesn't quite dare reach under himself to get himself off. “Please,” he whispers unthinkingly. “Please.”

Rumlow slows his pace and Grant makes a needy sound and tries to push himself back onto him. Rumlow chuckles and rubs a hand down Grant's back, stilling him and soothing him all at once. “Shhh, calm down. What is it, baby?”

“Please,” Grant repeats, almost shaking with the effort to not move. “Please, I need...”

“What do you need, sweetheart?” Rumlow asks, grabbing both Grant's hips and slamming into him, making him shout and writhe. He leans over, pressing his chest to Grant's back, and grabs his jaw with one hand, forcing his head up. “You need to come?” Rumlow mouths at Grant's ear and rolls his hips a little, making little teasing movements inside Grant that make him squirm desperately.

“Yes! Yes, please, yes. Let me, please.”

Grant, despite himself, looks under his eyelashes so he can see his parents and Christian, and they're not looking at them. They look sick, humiliated, and terrified and Grant feels a confusing twist of shame and satisfaction at their distress.

“Say, please, Daddy, let me come.”

Dad's head shoots up and for one awful moment their eyes meet before Grant screws his shut. No, absolutely not, no. That's just... Grant has his limits, jesus fuck, and that crosses right over them.

“Fuck you,” Grant spits, reaching down to jerk his own cock, and screams as Rumlow slices his forearm with his blade. He thrashes with the sudden pain and feels his eyes roll back into his head when Rumlow leans back up and fucks him through it. Grant scrambles at the bedspread and pushes himself back on Rumlow's cock and feels scrapped raw and on the edge from the vicious pleasure of it.

When Grant calms down and all that comes out of his throat are harsh breaths, Rumlow says, “You want to come, you ask Daddy nicely, otherwise you don't get to come at all.” He grips Grant's hips again and starts fucking him at a bruising pace. “And if I come first, you can enjoy having blue balls for the rest of the day.”

Grant knows Rumlow can't keep up this pace for very long without coming, but Grant isn't planning on saying a damn thing because he's a fucking adult who knows how to use his right hand, for the love of god.

Except... except Grant is hard enough to pound nails and the fresh burn of the cut on his arm and the humiliation of being fucked in front of an unwilling audience – _this_ unwilling audience – is making that worse, rather than better, and he doesn't exactly want to kill them and burn down the house with a boner, and fuck it they'll be dead in about twenty minutes anyway –

“Daddy,” he gasps. Rumlow slows immediately, letting Grant feel every slick inch of his cock. “Daddy please, please let me come.”

“Good boy,” Rumlow croons, reaching around to stroke Grant's cock. Grant feels fresh tears in his eyes, overwhelmed by shame and pleasure and sensation, and he's honestly surprised he doesn't come in the first second.

Rumlow speeds back up, fucking Grant into his hand and Grant doesn't even try to stop the sounds that spill from his throat, he's so beyond that, beyond everything but the desperate need to come –

Rumlow takes his hand away just as Grant is about to tip over the edge and the tears spill over and Grant chokes and babbles “Please, Daddy, please don't stop, please let me come.”

“Jesus. Jesus Christ, Grant,” his father whispers as Rumlow resumes jerking his dick and Grant squeezes his eyes shut and tenses and comes.

Rumlow laughs, sounding a little strained. “Yeah, that's it. There you go, baby boy, don's say I never did anything for ya, huh?” He takes his hand away when Grant starts actively squirming away from his touches and presses Grant's head down into the mattress with his come-streaked hand.

Grant lets himself be manhandled without complaint, feeling soft and loose-limbed in the wake of orgasm. It's not long at all before Rumlow slams all the way in and Grant can feel the splash of wet heat inside him. Despite how much he runs his mouth off while he fucks, Rumlow's always been nearly silent as he comes.

When Rumlow pulls out Grant just kind of lies there dazed for a few moments, trying to pull the shattered pieces of his mind back together. He allows himself a few beats to enjoy the first sex he's had in nearly a year; May was pretty decent in the sack and all, but it's not as if he was doing her for pleasure.

“You sick fuck,” Grant finally says on a small laugh..

Rumlow laughs outright and smacks Grant on the ass, making him twitch and glare. “You loved every second of it, sweetheart.”

“Fuck off,” Grant tosses back, reluctantly starting to pull himself back together. He absolutely did, but his point still stands.

“You about done here?” Rumlow asks casually. “I could kill for a goddamn cigarette, after a fuck like that.”

“You're hilarious,” Grant says, standing up and buttoning his pants. He doesn't let himself grimace at the feel of come leaking out of him, but Rumlow looks amused and self-satisfied like he knows anyway. “If these cuts get infected, I'm taking it out of your ass.”

Rumlow rolls his eyes. “They're not gonna get infected, relax.”

“Excuse me for being concerned, I don't know where that fucking thing has been.” Grant collects his shirt from where Rumlow tossed it and grimaces; it's a dead loss. He runs a hand through his hair and pulls a face. “And you fucking got come in my hair, you asshole.”

“What did I just say about talking like a pussy,” Rumlow drawls, and it's Grant's turn to roll his eyes dramatically as he stuffs his ruined shirt in the waistband of his jeans for later disposal. He can just wear his jacket zipped all the way up when he needs to leave.

“Well,” Grant says cheerfully as he turns to his family. “If I wasn't planning on killing you before...”

He trails off, grin sharpening as his mother screams and thrashes against her bonds, as his father begs him in a low voice not to do this “ – Please don't do this, Grant, we can work it out, we can fix this, please don't – ” and as Christian closes his eyes and slumps over as the fight drains out of him.

Rumlow hands Grant the gun he took from him earlier; Christian's gun, that he got from his house before catching up with his dear brother. He checks the magazine and chambers the bullet and takes a moment to savor this moment. It's not quite how he pictured, with Rumlow grinning in a corner and the scent of sex heavy in the air. He can see his own blood and come splattered on his parents' bed and he's surprised to note that it doesn't make him angry; It seems all he's felt lately was anger, but the desecration of it is more amusing than anything else.

“How we doin' this?” Rumlow says, and Grant appreciates the way he backs off, not trying to take the whole op away after hijacking it for his... side-mission. Grant grins nastily.

“Well first of all,” he says, pointing. “She dies last.”

His mother screams.


End file.
